Etude
by I am and I
Summary: The keys beckon and they haunt as well. A true musician never really abandons his first love.
1. Chapter 1

_I've toyed with the idea for days now... I love to think he would play_ _piano, Saïx, because it's such a wonderfully expressive instrument if played by the right hands... and he seems like he could make that mother sing. With the way Demyx is, I'd imagine he'd be more into strings... not straying outside that category of instruments..._

_Now, don't shoot me. Really there's no pairing. There's stuff about his life as a somebody too, but well... it's just me being stupid. Forgive me. I'm also in a really good mood music-wise because I got a new guitar today, and I'm still bleeding the excitement all over the place._

_Oh, and if you're interested, these are real piano pieces. I love Chopin..._

_Listen to the pieces if possible... the first is Ocean Etude Op.25 No.12, and the second that I had in mind is Nocturne No. 8 in D flat Op.27 No.2._

Disclaimer: I own nothing that is KH, nor the music mentioned. The writing, however, _is_ mine.

EDIT!!!

_So, this was beta'd by the wonderful Mousewolf once again... :) It's better than ever. Enjoy, guys._

* * *

Slowly, carefully, he approached the grand, standing majestically at the back of the room, like a wary animal. Its key cover was folded back, each ivory key grinning at him, an inlay of black like gaps between tombstones. The beautiful black instrument of something as equally empty and cold, it grinned up at him and begged, begged, begged incessantly for him to caress it as a lover would.

He stood, cold, emotionless as the moon that bathed him in its pale light.

"Look, I've seen you do it before…" The boy was beside him, all sandy hair and pouts and pleading ocean eyes, "You have to do it for me now… just this once!"

"Demyx, I do not enjoy this…"

"Please, just once. Please, only now, just this once and I'll never tell anyone," the blond begged, "It's like the one instrument I can't play! You can, though!"

The Berserker sighed.

"Alright," Saïx grumbled, "But only this one time! Never pester me like this again. Do you promise?"

"I do!" Demyx said sincerely, "Will you, please?"

There were no further words to be exchanged. He sat down at the bench, folding his coat's long bottom piece aside and sitting up ramrod straight. He placed his fingers on the keys, but there was a pause, a lull much like he remembered having as a somebody, sitting before all those people and their wide staring eyes, hungry for the music to come. He took a deep breath, held…

The plunge was epic: like the cavalry driving like a blade into battle or jumping into cold water on a hot day, seeing a meteor shower while making love to that beautiful red-haired girl on the hood of his car that summer that he swore he would never forget.

Chopin. He just flows into it, an expression somewhere between pain and sheer, unadulterated ecstasy etched on his usually solemn face. This was a song he loved in life… he still loves it if he can really bring himself to search it over. Ocean Etude Op 25 No 12.

It flowed from him, perfect time, and perfect speed. He broke the rules: he arched his back, leaning in closer toward the keys the way he always found himself doing in the many performances. His hands move with maniac speed. The song breaks into its climax, and he throws back his head, a vicious smile on his face. Silvery blue takes flight.

He was in a world of his own until the last notes roared from the strings. He straightened his hair out, smoothed his coat. He always hated looking ruffled. "There. You had your performance. Will you go to bed now?"

"Yeah…" Demyx whispered, his voice filled with shock and awe.

"Good. I'll see you in the morning then. I trust you can find your way back to your room on your own?"

"Yeah, um… S-Saïx…"

"Yes?"

"Why did you stop playing?"

He thought about it for a moment, hands still lightly gracing the keys. Thought about nightmares of silence, of staring, mocking eyes, of so many _people_ watching him. "I don't know."

Full lips frowned slightly, but Demyx turned away. "Good night, Saïx…"

"Good night, Demyx."

He listened to the hesitant footsteps. The blond seemed sad to go. He waited until the room was silent, and took a deep breath.

His hands moved of their own accord: this time, he played a Nocturne.


	2. Chapter 2

_Now... I had gotten pretty stuck on where to take this... but I'm a bad girl. I'll have to up the rating on this I think. Heh._

_Really, if you ask me I think that Demyx would be more of an example/tactile learner than most people... and Saïx would probably be more theory/abstract based, and well... if you're trying to teach a tactile person an abstract concept, it won't really help them all that much. Music theory can be explained in example, but it's a very, very abstract concept... I should know. _

_Alright, enough of my whining._

_--- EDIT! ---_

_Beta'd by the ever amazing Mousewolf. Go give praise and love. Yessss..._

* * *

Demyx is daunted by the keys. He fears them, but Saïx is patient.

He gently places the Nocturne's fingers and tries to get the blond to pay attention. He speaks in theory, but Demyx speaks in example, so it's like trying to mash the wrong puzzle pieces together, and the first snide comment by the Berserker drives the Musician completely away.

Saïx follows at a distance, but Demyx is not one to be stalked. He takes a corner and he's gone. Saïx, accepting defeat, merely goes back to what he was doing before, but this time, his - whatever, _something_ - is not in it and it comes out bad. Terrible, even. He sighs and plants his forehead firmly on the keys, blunt and annoyed and discordant. It's just not right when the Musician isn't here to egg him on.

He lays there for a moment, unsure of what exactly he wants. He's never sure, so like an old dog, he uses those techniques: the stroll-back-into-the-room-where-you-realized-you-wanted-something method, the stare at the ceiling method, the pacing-until-there's-a-hole-in-the-floor method. He tries it all and it still won't come back and he's actually really frustrated now.

As quiet and deliberate as the beast slumbering inside him, he finds himself retreating up to the Alter of Naught, watching the sky sparkle with the heatless diamonds that taunt him, the sliver of Cheshire-cat smile that peers down at him with such unreadable malice.

"I'm sorry…"

The words are soft, slow, but it's impossible to not recognize the speaker. He tenses, intentionally. "You shouldn't worry about it."

He can feel the boy's expression – brow furrowed, frowning only slightly more than pouting. "I know… but I made you mad. I didn't want to do that."

"I know. I don't hold it against you."

Warm hands on his shoulders, pulling him back against a strangely lukewarm body, then the arms that loop loosely around his shoulders, a hug of sorts. He doesn't know what to make of it so he simply stands there, not daring to breathe. He turns his head just a little to look, feels the Nocturne's lips brushing against his ear like a mist.

"You're cold…"

Saïx has to force himself to take a breath, feels a terrible hot blush burning across his cheeks. "I… always am."

"I can fix that…" the blond chuckles, suddenly losing every inch of foolishness that would have made the Diviner think of him as an idiot savant. He was suddenly bearing the true nature of the sea: the shallows that spread for miles and then suddenly drop off into incomprehensible depths.

"Demyx?"

"I've been wondering… about this."

A hand searches down into the opening of the Berserker's coat, gloveless, dexterously pushing past the material of the lining, a shirt, came to rest gently over the place where a heart, only in name, throbbed softly. He presses his hand down, his hot palm almost uncomfortable against cold porcelain-white skin.

"It's naught but the physical mechanism that keeps these shells alive," Saïx explains.

"Then why does it beat faster when I'm around? It does, doesn't it?" Demyx persists, "Because if it's always beating this fast, that's not good for you, darling."

"Demyx… you've put me in quite the uncomfortable situation. You can't expect me to be perfectly calm at a time like this."

"Well… maybe it's just me… but every time I see you, it hurts. My heart hurts… and I want you so desperately to stay."

There was a long silence.

"When you say we don't have hearts… I just think you're full of it, and it makes me want to prove you wrong."

Demyx suddenly released him and started quickly down the steps, nothing but the click of his boot heels echoing down the steps to ever suggest he was there.

And there the Berserker stands like a statue, that place on his chest feeling like an ice-slick now. And in his head, the rapid pounding of a song he's never heard before. He takes a moment to compose himself, fingers playing an invisible instrument for long minutes that seem to drag past endlessly. He smiled. Relief.

"Thank you, you idiot."


	3. Chapter 3

_The final installment. Hope you guys like it. (lessthanthree)_

* * *

Demyx yawned. It was almost three-thirty in the morning and he was finally starting to wind down into a more or less relaxed state of mind. His sitar lay in his lap, a familiar and strangely comforting weight, and his chin was against his chest, fair blue eyes fluttering shut.

He was completely unaware when a black-cloaked figure breezed past him, sitting at the piano bench gracefully. The pause and then the music began to flow.

Shaken from his sleep, the blond looked up and glanced to piano. There with his back to him, playing with the utmost concentration was Saïx, and most surprising of all, he was _composing_. Demyx could feel the notes resonating in his chest, a melody that was strangely familiar, but unlike anything he had ever heard and so strangely endearing.

The Berserker's face was screwed into a mask of concentration Demyx had really never seen unless he was on the battlefield. He was obviously dredging up memories of lessons on theory, piecing notes together in a pleasing string like a jigsaw puzzle.

His hands move much more slowly, but there's something deliberately delicate about the movements, even in the heaviest strings… he makes it flow like water, wax and wane like the moon through her cycles; her child writes an ode to her love for the ancient blue depths.

Oh, would that they know anarchy.

Demyx set aside his sitar, walked up behind the concentrating older man, stopped only feet away and closed his aquamarine eyes and held his hands out, placed them lightly on the older man's tense shoulders. The song only deepened, and he leaned back, pressing his shoulders firm to Demyx's stomach.

"Closer," he whispered, still playing.

Demyx obeyed wordlessly, stepping up until his knees bumped the bottom of the piano bench. He slid his hands down the older man's chest. The notes darkened, became stronger, heavier. It reminded him of rain.

A night of thunder where the moon only peeked through barest slits in the clouds.

And as soon as it had become dark, it smoothed out like a silk cloth.

A haunting melody. The story of a lonely life, but always flowing with a smooth background, multiplying into new layers and folds. The melody pans into a broad string of deep, resonating notes, just as haunting, but fuller, more sonorous. Demyx breathed a shuddering sigh as the melody returned to the introduction, but this time with more flair, unafraid.

Still deep and dark, but passionate. As passionate as could spill from such a dark soul's fingertips. And it died softly, breaking into basic notes, black strikes on a page. A simple tune to carry on in silence. His hands fell away and he sighed deep.

Demyx only then realized that he had been crying as a tear drops to Saïx's leather-clad shoulder.

"Demyx?" the tone was so hauntingly worried.

All this time Demyx had been so convinced: Saïx seemed a void. No matter what emotions one poured into his empty soul, nothing would be reciprocated, and it made the blond sad. Very sad. Despite all his majestic grace and radiant glory, he seemed nothing but the rocks against which the wild sea rages, the hole left in the ground when you remove an ancient stone. Now he seemed something much deeper. Higher. High and bright and lonely.

"Why couldn't you just stay empty?" Demyx breathed, hands tightening on the leather front of Saïx's uniform coat, "Why now? Why do you have to make me this way?"

Demyx turned and took a few unsteady steps away, ripping at his face with the backs of his wrists. It was embarrassing to be so unrestrained in front of this man, this stone that had stood so firmly, the hurtle in his stream, the one thing he couldn't budge of his own accord. He wanted to be strong.

Strong hands on his hips, pulling him against an equally hard body. Demyx stops breathing as soft, warm lips press gentle to his cheek, like something out of a dream. He can't bring himself to understand it.

"You made me realize something," the blue-haired man sighed softly. A hand rises, movements soft, deliberate, wiping the tears running fresh from bloodshot aqua depths. "I stopped playing, because I hated them. The way they looked at me like I was a piece of meat… like they wanted to tear me to pieces…"

"I… I hated it too," Demyx admitted, turning to gaze into a single gold-gilt eye.

"When you look at me, it's not hunger… it's a desire for something to… to resonate with. You don't want to take… you want to give."

Demyx blushed hotly, averting his gaze.

"I…"

"Don't. Don't speak. Words are foolish things and we can never say the right things when they are so needed. Don't break this…" he whispered desperately, "Just… just feel."

And somehow, Demyx felt the moment as something orchestral. He was something strange and new and beautiful in Saix's capable hands: Woodwind bones; heart of hide stretched taut; a voice like a symphony of strings; skin like the smooth brass of a coronet. Saïx, the virtuoso hidden beneath the violence of a beast, his claws suddenly so delicate in reverence of this Angel of Music.

Demyx clung so desperately, and Saïx held so lovingly.

For the first time in what felt like many long eons, Saïx released the pent up sorrow in his soul, only to have it reciprocated, understood, resonated in the supposedly shallow blond musician.

Would that they know anarchy.

Oh, now they knew it well.

"If I asked you to stay forever," Demyx whispered breathlessly, "would you?"

"My promise is my word."

"Then make me your promise every night so I'll remember."

"I promise."


End file.
